


Nonconsensual Bondage And A Well-Timed Rescue

by Miss_Snazzy



Category: Deadpool (2016), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Teen Wolf Season 5b, Deadpool being Deadpool, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Deadpool (2016), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Protective Wade, Rescue, Restraints, Snark, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles tolerates, Teacher Stiles, Wade flirts, among other things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: The thing about Wade—and there were many things about Wade, many, many disturbing and heartbreaking things—was that he had a lot more control over his life than he led others to believe.Which was why Stiles had zero sympathy for his current predicament, spread eagle across the bed of a grimy spa, face mashed into his latest in a long line of burner phones.





	

The thing about Wade—and there were many things about Wade, many, many disturbing and heartbreaking things—was that he had a lot more control over his life than he led others to believe.

  
Which was why Stiles had zero sympathy for his current predicament, spread eagle across the bed of a grimy spa, face mashed into his latest in a long line of burner phones.

  
Stiles disconnects his own, mentally sighing at the chunk of minutes now lost.

  
Not that he had anyone else to use them on, but still. He could have splurged on a pizza with that Baht.

  
“Why’d you let them tie you up?”

  
Wade wiggles and Stiles concentrates on the creaking of the leather bonds over the shift of his leather-coated ass.

  
“Where else am I gonna get my foreplay, if not from my darling freck-a-mole?” Wade points out, tone almost sugary. “A lady has needs.”

  
“A lady knows when to pull out the safeword,” Stiles returns, leaning over Wade’s prone body to pull a blade out of his right thigh holster. Wade moans loud, obscene, and endearingly fake at the touch. Stiles cracks a smile.

  
“I said ‘Richard’ but the man just wouldn't let up.” Wade’s hand stays limp, even as Stiles saws through the first restraint.

  
“So that’s why you tacked him to the wall,” Stiles mutters, glancing at the man’s face. Strands of dark hair fall between his glassy eyes where he must’ve stared down at the katana stabbed through his stomach in his final moments. Not one Stiles recognizes. Hmm. “Richard?”

  
“Well,” Wade hums, “if I’m in the throes of passion, I ain’t gonna be thinking about some douche on a yacht. I’m gonna be all about the dic—”

  
“Really,” Stiles stresses, drowning out Wade, “don’t know why they didn’t gag you.”

  
“Oh honey,” Wade coos as Stiles hacks through the restraints around his dark boot, “they did try.”

  
Stiles glances up, meeting Wade’s gaping white eyes before sliding down the scrunched fabric to his naked mouth. Wade offers a scarred grin, toothy and lined with blood. Stiles grimaces.

  
“That’s disgusting,” Stiles murmurs, automatic. He rounds the bed to start on Wade’s left boot.

  
Wade jerks his head to follow.

  
“Don’t I know it.”

  
Stiles hums, frowning at the knots around Wade’s boot. Mercenary-grade weaponry aside, slicing through leather dulls a blade like no one’s business.

  
“Having trouble?” Wade sing-songs. Stiles grunts. “Could cut off my foot if it’ll be easier?” he offers.

  
“Why is amputation always the first place you people go?”

  
“Whoa, whoa. You people?” Wade frowns. “Wait. Which other kinky bastard you been hanging out with?”

  
Stiles rolls his eyes.

  
“Just another masochist I used to know,” Stiles murmurs, tugging at a piece of leather almost sliced from the knot.

  
Wade huffs.

  
“There you go, trying to label me again,” Wade laments.

  
Stiles frees Wade’s boot and moves to his final arm, kneeling next to the bedpost.

  
Wade curls his body under his trapped arm, propped up on his other elbow with apparent ease. A pose Wade would probably dub: The Sexy Pretzel.

  
“So, how’d the kiddies do on their test?”

  
Stiles blinks up at Wade’s open gaze.

  
“About the same as their last,” Stiles murmurs, focus returning to his hands. The leather of this restraint fits particularly snug around Wade’s gloved wrist. “Half the kids forgot their full stops.” He huffs, yanking harder on the leather. “Even though I reminded them right before handing out the damn thing.” He works through an outer strip of leather in an effort to ease the tension around Wade’s wrist. “If they’d just check their work...” he grumbles. “But no,” he drawls, rolling his eyes, “all they care about is finishing first.”

  
Wade hums.

  
“Nothing good ever comes from finishing too soon,” Wade agrees.

  
Stiles stills his hands.

  
“I will leave you here.”

  
“C’mon,” Wade whines. “Did you really expect me to let that opportunity pass?”

  
Stiles curls his fingers around the leather and yanks.

  
Wade blows a raspberry.

  
Stiles sighs.

  
“You owe me,” Stiles grumbles. “Those minutes weren’t cheap.”

  
Screw having no one to talk to. Wade owes him for putting up with crap like this.

  
“Don’t worry,” Wade murmurs in his ear, voice low, chin resting on the bed post. When did he get so close? “I’ll top you.”

  
Stiles jerks and hisses, slicing down the pad of his thumb along with the last piece of leather keeping Wade in place. Wade’s complacent pose evaporates in a jerk of motion.

  
“Careful,” Wade coos, right hand clasping around Stiles’s wrist, his freed hand now curled around the right side of Stiles’s neck.

  
Stiles stares at the contrast of black leather against his pale skin and wonders.

  
Then Wade sucks Stiles’s bleeding thumb into his mouth like they’re characters in a trashy romance novel, and Stiles—Stiles does not suck in a breath like the heroine of a trashy romance novel, okay? He doesn’t.

  
“Wha—”

  
Wade hums and Stiles gapes at the way the sound vibrates through his thumb.

  
“No wonder they call it ‘O’,” Wade murmurs upon popping Stiles’s thumb out of his mouth like a ring pop. “That was positively orgasmic.”

  
Stiles blinks. He replays Wade’s words and the world realigns.

  
“How the hell did you learn my blood type?” Stiles hisses, wrenching his hand out of Wade’s slacking grip.

  
Wade rolls his eyes. Maybe. Hard to tell through the gaping white eyes of the mask.

  
Still more expressive than Derek’s eyebrows, somehow.

  
“Hello,” Wade drawls, “emergency contact, here. Of course I know.”

  
“How—no, when the hell did you become my emergency contact?”

  
Wade pats Stiles on the cheek, matching his scowl with a smirk.

  
“Us ex-Cans gotta stick together.”

  
Stiles rises when Wade stands, watching him stride past to rummage through the pockets of the new wall art.

  
“For the last time, I'm American.”

  
Wade oh’s, loud and drawn out.

  
“California, right? What part was it again?” Wade asks, offhand, his shoulders lax.

  
Of course he peeked.

  
Stiles clenches his jaw, tossing Wade’s knife onto the rumpled bedding.

  
Bastard.

  
“Screw you, Wade.”

  
Wade peers over his shoulder at Stiles, still too damn relaxed. Stiles grits his teeth.

  
“Sure. Just gotta say the magic word.”

  
“Restraining order?”

  
“That’s two words, honeybunch.”

  
“Two more than you’ll get from me the next time you call,” Stiles tosses over his shoulder as he rounds the bed, stepping over another body on the floor.

  
Wade remains silent, but Stiles can feel his gaze resting on his back until the curtain flutters closed behind him.

  
Stiles confirms the unaltered positions of the fallen bodies in the hallway beyond. Their lack of interruption during the laborious removal of Wade’s restraints seemed suspect at best. Without a positive ID on Wade’s jailor, Stiles had little to go on.

  
“Not my problem,” Stiles mutters.

  
A man darts into his path as if summoned just to contradict that thought. Stiles flails to a stop, leaving a few inches between the barrel and his chest. He watches the man jerk the gun at his face, thin moustache stretching taut with each snarled word, and wishes he knew more Thai.

  
Not that Stiles thought this man wanted to chat. The red blotches on his Ramone’s tee looked too browned for chili sauce.

  
“Kha thot?” Stiles tries, affecting an innocent expression.

  
The man rattles something off in Thai, tone vicious and response riddled with Falang’s. The gun drifts from his chin to the space between his eyes.

  
Stiles flinches at the crack of the gun firing, blinking hard. He watches a new pool of blood join the other blotch on the man’s shirt and takes stock of his own lack of bullet wounds.

  
“And that’s bingo,” Wade sneers, stepping up beside him.

  
For a moment, all Stiles can see is that Chemist, Simon, eyes cold and insistent as he demands the whereabouts of his friends. He can almost feel the assassin’s blood splattered across his face.

  
But when the man falls, Agent McCall doesn’t lurk in the space behind him with his gun still held aloft. Only the door remains, left ajar.

  
Stiles clenches his fist and refuses to count.

  
Ducking his head with a sigh, Stiles peers up at Wade in his periphery. Wade has rolled his mask back down, leaving the direction of the twist of his mouth up to debate. His own gun dangles at his side. Stiles relaxes his fist.

  
Wade’s rescues always seem far easier to stomach than Agent McCall’s had.

  
Big surprise.

  
“I know a great noodle place a couple blocks from here,” Wade offers as he crouches over the man’s body, fishing a set of keys out of his jeans.

  
Stiles watches the shift of muscles in Wade’s back and exhales a shaky breath.

  
“Sure. Why not?”

  
“That’s the right attitude!” Wade chirps.

  
Stiles rolls his eyes.

  
“And after,” Wade continues, linking arms with Stiles who sighs, but doesn’t bother wrenching away, “we’ll hit up a hospital. Your school hooked you up with insurance, right?”

  
Stiles stalls as they step onto the sidewalk outside, jerking Wade out of the path of an oncoming motorcycle.

  
“Hospital?” Stiles repeats, searching Wade’s body for a festering wound. “You’re not healing?”

  
“Oh, I’m as fit as a sunken fiddle,” Wade assures. Stiles sighs again and stops seeking a pool of black gunk he wouldn’t have found anyway. “But you might need a shot.”

  
“What.”

  
“As much as I enjoyed tonguing your thumb,” Wade ignores Stiles’s choked breath, “one,” Wade flicks a finger up, “I’m not half gem. Two,” another finger, “I don’t have healing spit. And three,” a third finger, “that knife wasn’t exactly sterile.”

  
Stiles slips his arm out of the curl of Wade’s, ignoring the slide of leather against his exposed forearm, and turns toward the main street.

  
“Is that a ‘no’ to the noodles, then?” Wade calls.

  
Stiles continues to stalk away, muttering to himself.

  
“What about some Tom Yum?”

**Author's Note:**

> -Baht = currency in Thailand  
> -minutes/top up = In Thailand, and most other countries in Asia, you buy a SIM card with a local carrier and load your phone with money (top up) as needed. Nearly everyone uses the LINE app for calling and messaging, rather than the actual minutes.  
> -Kha thot = "sorry" in Thai (spelled phonetically here)  
> -Falang = extremely common word used by Thai people to refer to western foreigners
> 
> Anyway, I've been working on this for weeks. Or months. I don't know, time passes differently here. So let me know what you think!
> 
> [So excited to be the first to tag this romantic pairing. Really hope more will follow. From someone else, preferably]


End file.
